On Friday, former President Uhuru Kenyatta did not sound like a man easing into quiet retirement. He sounded like a man who had receipts. With the calm of someone who no longer has elections to win, Uhuru stood before Kenyans and read President William Ruto for filth.
It wasn’t polite critique. It wasn’t coded language. It was the unfiltered version of Uhuru we rarely saw while he was in power.
Top of his list was the dismantling of social programs his Jubilee administration had built. Linda Mama — the free maternal healthcare initiative — was singled out as a casualty of the new administration’s priorities. To Uhuru, this was more than just policy backsliding; it was proof that ordinary Kenyans, especially women and mothers, were being failed.
For once, it didn’t feel like political rhetoric. It sounded like an indictment. And in political speak, that’s about as close to “you fumbled the bag” as it gets.
Then came the part that truly read like shade from a former ally turned critic: Uhuru pointing out the political tango between Ruto and Raila Odinga.
Remember, it was Uhuru’s handshake with Raila in 2018 that drew fury, particularly from then–Deputy President Ruto, who cast it as betrayal. Fast forward to today, and Ruto and Raila are clasping hands in public, rebranding the very act they condemned.
Uhuru didn’t need to say much. His mere acknowledgment was a mic drop. The irony spoke louder than any insult could. In today’s political script, hypocrisy isn’t a scandal — it’s choreography. And Uhuru was making sure Kenyans remembered who wrote the first draft of this dance.
Uhuru spoke like a man who has nothing left to bargain for. No manifestos, no campaigns, no need to hold anyone’s hand. Retirement has turned him into the most dangerous version of himself: honest.
While in office, his words were weighed down by diplomacy and political calculus. On Friday, they were sharpened by hindsight. He spoke of abandoned programs, of unkept promises, of leaders who preach unity today after tearing it down yesterday. In short, he read the current government for filth — calmly, steadily, and with the credibility of someone who knows what it means to sit in that chair.
This wasn’t just about settling scores. Uhuru’s speech underscored a deeper Kenyan reality: our politics is built on cycles of betrayal and reinvention. Alliances form, collapse, and form again, often at the expense of citizens who don’t get the luxury of starting over every five years.
His frustration, whether personal or political, speaks to a truth most Kenyans already live with: continuity is a myth.
For once, Uhuru didn’t sound like the president who faded quietly into retirement. He sounded like a man tired of watching his legacy get dismantled piece by piece, only to see the wreckage sold as progress. He sounded, frankly, like someone who had been keeping notes.
He didn’t insult or name-call; he didn’t need to. He laid bare the inconsistencies, the reversals, the contradictions — exposing them in a way that cut deeper than any slogan.
